


In Which John and Matt Should Stop Thinking and Start Doing

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'll wear off, that hero worship, just like it always does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John and Matt Should Stop Thinking and Start Doing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community for the Fic Tac Toe challenge.  
> Prompt: Hospital

Matt is pretty damned happy when he and McClane get assigned to the same hospital room. Because even though they won and all – bad guys dead, nefarious plans thwarted, financial data saved, good guys totally deserving of a ticker tape parade and a key to the city – he just can't seem to relax. Which really? After being threatened, stalked, punched, and _shot through the motherfucking knee_ , he thinks it's probably normal that now that it's over he wants to hide behind about six Yale locks and curl up in a corner, possibly in the foetal position. And this place just isn't _secure_. He keeps eyeing the water-stained ceiling tiles above his bed, picturing Goon Number Seventeen crashing through them with guns blazing. And the door is super flimsy and doesn't even _lock_ , so anyone could just stroll right into the room like he owns the place. Anyone, like Goon Number Eighteen or Nineteen or… or even Gabriel himself, if Thomas Gabriel is actually one of those yogi masters who can control his breathing and make it seem like he's dead but really, _really_ he is getting up from the gurney in the morgue right this fucking minute and--

The doctors kind of freak out when he starts hyperventilating.

Once Matt's gulped down a hit from the rapidly produced inhaler, he feels a little better. But the thing that really calms him down is reminding himself that John McClane and his practically indestructible tank of a body is right there in the next bed. He tells himself that he can't keep his eyes off McClane because there might be more bad guys out there and McClane totally rocks that Big Strong Protector of the Innocent vibe. That's all. It has nothing whatsoever to do with remembering how John threw himself on top of Matt's body whenever the shit hit the fan, and what it felt like to be covered, sheltered, _encompassed_ by a whole lot of McClane. Or with that little smirk John gets when he's wisecracking with the nurse, or the altogether-too-brief peek he got of that broad chest when John changed into his hospital gown, or the way John's big hands flex on top of the covers and how much he would really, really like to feel those hands tangled in his hair or wrapped around the nape of his neck, drawing him in, closer and closer until finally their lips meet and--

After the second shot from the inhaler, Matt decides that chatting is the best way to avoid both thinking and hyperventilating. So every time John's sharp green eyes drift his way, he talks. About their crazy road trip, the Warlock, programming, the state of his knee, the state of the economy. McClane mostly grunts, occasionally snorts and rolls his eyes. Once he says "Jeeesus, kid, you like the sound of your own voice." Matt almost takes that as a sign to stop, but the alternative is giving in fully to that image in his head of John on his back, long fingers clutching at those stupid cheap hospital sheets while Matt lowers himself slowly onto his stiff cock.

Matt shakes his head and goes back to his explanation of floating-point algorithms.

When the nurse comes to take McClane away for his surgery, the look on John's face almost seems like relief.

* * *

"So," Matt says when the nurses have finished fussing with drips and monitors and have dimmed the lights and crept silently out to the hushed late-night hallway, "are you trying to hail a cab or get the bill from our waiter?"

John's entire right arm might be swathed in fresh white bandages, bent at the elbow and held aloft by an elaborate pulley system, but his fingers are just fine. He raises his middle finger to let Matt know exactly what he thinks of his remark, slides his gaze to Matt's bed in time to see one of the kid's bushy brows rise. He tunes out most of what Matt has to say in reply – something about expecting more from the city's finest, endangering the minds of America's youth, blah blah blah – and focuses instead on trying to get comfortable, a task that soon proves to be practically impossible. Turns out taking two bullets in the same shoulder wasn't the best plan he's ever had. The surgery took three hours, and John's sure he's got socks older than the punk who performed it.

He finally manages to slither a little further up on the bed, reaches around with his good arm to adjust the slab of concrete they call a pillow. Closes his eyes. Breathes deep and tries to put everything out of his head, the way the department shrink taught him. Breathe, and exhale away the image of Emerson holding his Lucy tight against his chest, her tear stained face. Breathe, and exhale away Gabriel's smug satisfaction, the gun pressed into his open wound, the pain and fear and heart-stuttering realization of what would have happened if he'd failed. Breathe, and—

John sighs. "Stop staring, kid."

He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't have to look to know that Matt is blinking, looking hastily away, fingers fluttering on the limp sheet, throat working around a denial that he won't say aloud. Doesn't have to look to know that in a moment Matt will glance his way again, chin tipped down, watching John through his shaggy hair.

It's not the first time this has happened when he's helped someone, saved someone. It's not even the first time with another man. It'll wear off, that hero worship, just like it always does. And John knows that he should hasten its demise. But every time he'd turned to Matt in that long afternoon leading up to the surgery, determined to interrupt Matt's endless chatter with a firm "You and me? Never gonna happen, so get that thought outta your head right now, kid", he found himself drawn to Matt's big brown eyes, wide and innocent and so damn fucking hopeful that it made his chest ache, and he just… couldn't do it.

It'll have to wear off with time, like it did with the others -- the woman from Nakatomi, the bank teller in his fresh three-piece suits and three hundred dollar haircuts. It'll wear off with Matt as well, when they've recovered and are out of the hospital and the memories begin to fade. When they are back to their regular humdrum lives, with John leading his counter-terrorist team and Matt doing… whatever young, gawky computer nerds do. When the days stretch to weeks and months and they never see each other. When they never see each other again.

John winces around that damn ache.

Breathe, and exhale away all thoughts of Matt's too-long hair and soft, unblemished skin and smartass mouth. Breathe, and exhale away all thoughts of Matthew Farrell.

* * *

Matt stops talking so much – in fact, he makes a conscious effort not to talk at all – when it becomes clear that THAT plan is just not working. And he tries not to think about it, he really does. But no matter what he tries – working out complex mathematical equations in his head, mentally reciting the best moments from _The Wrath of Khan_ , even watching stupid Spanish telenovellas on the crappy little 3-inch TV screen by his bed -- he can't get the thought of kissing John McClane out of his head.

He thinks about kissing John when the doctors are explaining the surgery that'll be required for his knee; when Lucy punches him on the arm and thanks him for saving her life; when his mom sits perched on the vinyl chair by his bed, purse clutched on thin knees, staring blankly at the mustard yellow walls.

Matt is well aware of his own obsessive tendencies. The thing that motivates him to stay awake for three days straight trying to work out a glitch in a code is the same thing that had him, at fourteen, compulsively tracking David Boreanaz's every move on the 'net. But when you're online, no one can see that your eyes are glazing over or that you can't stop looking at that tattoo on someone's bicep and wanting to _bite_ it or—

\--or even that the guy you're checking out just might be surreptitiously checking you out in return.

Huh.

He's got to be imagining that. He's still pretty high on the morphine, after all.

Except when he's propped up on his bed with the crappy little laptop Lucy loaned him, half watching the latest episode of _Duas Caras_ and half working out the probability of a yellow L-shaped tetromino falling within the next thirty seconds, he's really mostly concentrating on John. Every time John shifts on his own narrow bed, grunts and mutters and tries to get comfortable, Matt's body actually twitches and he has to force himself to concentrate on the game. And he's sure that John is looking at him, because every time John's gaze rakes across him, Matt can swear he feels it under his skin, down to his bones. And once, when he's reaching for his water glass and he looks up quickly, he actually catches John staring… and if he had to categorize the look that John was shooting him, he would have to call it _speculative_.

So. Yeah.

But even if he isn't imagining it – and he is, he has to be, it's John McClane – he never actually intends to do anything about it. About the kiss. His endless stupid ridiculous daydreams about the way John's lips would feel on his, warm and soft and a little dry because the air circulation in the room is for shit. About the way John's tongue would flick out, teasing at this bottom lip before licking his way inside. About the way John's fingers would curl around his upper arm to pull him closer, insistent and forceful. The way John would moan against his lips. About the… the things that would happen after that, clothes shed and firm bodies pressed together like perfect puzzle pieces, sweaty writhing—

"You okay, kid?" John asks.

Matt puts down the inhaler, manages a weak smile. "Stupid knee," he mutters.

* * *

Scalvino thinks that the department needs all the good press it can hustle up, and John doesn't get a fucking say in the matter. The reporters are scheduled for the interview at ten in the morning, whether he likes it or not. John uses many colourful words to express his opinion of _not_.

John spends a restless night thinking about bravery vs. expedience. About fighting alone for so long and then finally, strangely, comfortably having someone to count on. About the supersmart kid that got thrown into this shit by the seat of his pants and came through with flying colours, saving his life, saving his _daughter's_ life. And he thinks that maybe he understands this hero worship thing a little more.

He comes groggily awake when the nurses bring in their breakfast trays, grunts at Matt's all-too-cheery good morning and glances his way. The kid's hair is corkscrewed in half a dozen different directions, his face still puffy with sleep, a thin line pressed into his cheek from where it was smashed into the pillow. He looks young and vulnerable and…

And the things that John thinks about him, thinks about _doing_ with him, are bold and brazen and fucking shameless.

He looks away, studies his hand on the cheap blanket and pretends not to notice when Matt's face falls.

The nurses prop a mirror on his bed-tray every morning so he can shave, but lathering and scraping one-handed is a bitch and he still feels scruffy and unkempt when he's done. He won't even attempt to work on his scalp in this condition, so his head itches like a motherfucker. His right arm, suspended in the air, feels like it's being pulled out of its socket and not even an extra shot of Demerol eases the insistent ache. His oatmeal tastes like sludge and his egg looks like nuclear waste and he's got reporters arriving in a few hours and Matt is right there looking at him with those clear brown eyes, looking at him likes he _knows_ him, and he's just can't do this right now.

He shoves the bed-tray away with his breakfast half-eaten, slides against the sheets in an attempt to get comfortable and ends up knocking the pillow that he has propped against his back – the only pillow that gives him any fucking relief from the white-hot poker of pain in his shoulder – to the floor.

"Mother. Fucker," he mutters under his breath.

John closes his eyes. Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe, and exhale away the pain- frustration-weariness. Breathe, and exhale away the confusing thoughts crowding his brain.

He's aware of the slither of the sheets from the other bed, the soft pad of Matt's bare feet on the scuffed floor. But when he opens his eyes he doesn't expect to see Matt so _close_ , bending over him, the dropped pillow gripped in his hand. This close, John sees that Matt's eyes are actually flecked with green, the effect startling against his pale skin. His eyes are wide now, and unblinking; full red lips open just slightly in surprise. He is close enough that John can feel Matt's chest move with the sharp intake of the breath that he takes; can feel the featherlike brush of silken hair against his collarbone.

John opens his mouth to say something – he doesn't know what – but Matt is close enough that John can see when the decision comes into his eyes. Matt closes the small amount of distance between them, and John swallows his words, stays still, so still, when Matt brushes their lips together. Now he can feel his own heart trip-hammering in his chest, but Matt's heartbeat through the thin hospital gown is as strong and steady as the pressure of his lips.

It can't last more than a couple of seconds, and John feels like he can't move, can't _reciprocate_ , and then Matt is pulling away, those big expressive eyes finally blinking, darting to the side, anxious.

"Whoa," Matt says. "I don't know… I'm sor—"

John's right arm might be incapacitated, but his left is just fine. And his reflexes are damn good, if he does say so himself. He whips out his arm, fingers curling around the nape of Matt's neck to keep him in place. The hair there is as soft as he imagined it would be, slightly damp and curling at the ends, and he lets his fingers linger in the strands before he cups his hand more firmly and tugs.

Matt has time for a small, surprised but satisfied little "oh" before John has mashed their lips together. Matt stumbles, his hands splayed on John's chest for support, and John is mindful of the metal and steel contraption on his knee, tugs again until Matt is half-sprawled on the bed and then he can explore that mouth. He takes his time, pulling back to suck on that full lower lip before licking Matt's mouth open and teasing his tongue inside, revelling in the little moans and stuttering breaths that he's able to draw forth. He curls his fingers at the back of Matt's head, holds the kid in place, inwardly curses his immobilised right arm because he wants to be exploring. He has no idea how long they stay like that, all the usual hospital noises fading away. It's only when Matt's hand comes up to stroke his face that he blinks and lets go, draws in a ragged breath.

Matt looks smug and self-satisfied and John… really wants to kiss him again.

And the kid must know it too, the little fucker, because he adjusts himself a little more comfortably against John's chest and grins and says, "Hah."

John purses his lips to keep from grinning right back. "Shut up, kid."

"I knew it!" Matt crows. "I knew it wasn't just me! You kept looking at me—"

"Shut up."

"—and I thought it had to be my imagination, because hi? Skinny hacker dude who's like, practically a _criminal_ and John McClane, supercop. A big no, right? But I just kept thinking about it and I couldn't stop, I mean I tried man, I really tried—"

"Shut. Up."

"—and then I thought if I did it you might actually _literally_ beat me to death, because kissing you would probably be like a thousand times worse than kissing Lucy, which by the way I never had any intention of doing, just so we're clear, and—"

"Jesus," John groans. "You get some action and suddenly you're Mr. Verbosity again."

"—then you were right there so I just… went for it. Kissed you." Matt leans back, and if it's possible his proud little grin gets even wider.

John snorts. "That was a peck. _I_ kissed _you_."

Matt cocks his head, regards John incredulously. "What, are you kidding me? You want the credit now?"

"You really think that little peck you gave me was a kiss," John says drily.

"Hey! _I_ got the ball rolling, dude. If I left it up to you we'd still be sitting here staring at bad Spanish television and grunting at each other. Maybe, maybe if we had another month in here, and this is a big _maybe_ , McClane, _maybe_ then you'd have gotten the balls to do something about the clearly growing attraction you have towards me, but—"

Turns out kissing Matt is a great way to shut him up. And the second time, John figures out how to do some exploring.


End file.
